The Gatehouse Mystery

planning to pawn the diamond in a town so far away that nobody would suspect him of the theft."
    "Why, Trixie," Honey cried admiringly. "How smart you are! That makes a lot of sense. People who own big commercial orchards are rich enough to have diamonds. And think how easy it would have been for the tramp to take the pit out of the peach and slip the diamond inside. What a perfect hiding place!" She stopped suddenly and put her finger to her lips.
    Both girls stood as motionless as statues, and then Trixie heard it. A twig snapped in the thicket outside the window. From the woods on the hill behind the Manor House came the sound of the dogs barking. Reddy and Patch were on the trail of something—or someone.
    Trixie tiptoed to the window, listening. Leaves rustled; there was the soft whisper of crisscrossing branches being stealthily parted. Then, as the dogs' excited barking told her that they were racing down toward the cottage, she heard the sound of hurrying feet on the pine-needle carpet of the woods.
    "Just as I thought," Trixie said to Honey. "Someone was in the thicket all the time, listening to every word we said, until the dogs frightened him away." She grabbed Honey's arm. "Come on. Let's try to find out who it was!"

A Warning • 3

    HONEY HUNG BACK, her huge, hazel eyes wide with fright. "Oh, no, Trixie," she begged. "If it's the tramp who stole the diamond, he might be dangerous. Let the dogs find him."
    "They won't," Trixie cried impatiently. "Jim just whistled to them, and they've gone off toward the house." She let go of Honey's slim arm and raced out of the cottage and into the woods. After stumbling a few steps, she realized how hopeless it would be to try to find the eavesdropper, so she came back to where Honey was standing on the doorsill of the cottage.
    "You dashed right through the poison ivy," Honey said, shaking her head. "You'd better hurry up to the house and take a hot shower and lather yourself with laundry soap."
    "I guess I'd better," Trixie admitted ruefully, staring at her bare arms and legs. "But I sure would like to know who was spying on us."
    As they climbed the front steps to the wide veranda that encircled the ground floor of the Manor House, Jim called to them from the garage. "What cooks, girls?"
    "Poison ivy," Trixie said. "I forgot to be careful, as usual, so now I've got to scrub."
    "Will you ever learn?" he demanded, grinning.
    "Something wrong with the sedan?" Honey asked him. "We saw you two poking under the hood."
    Jim nodded. "A knock in the motor. It would take better troubleshooters than we are to find out what causes it. Regan just went for some tools."
    He walked on toward the corral, and the girls hurried up to Honey's suite. While Trixie showered, Honey perched on the windowsill and said, "Regan is no more of a detective when it comes to the mystery of what makes a motor tick than Jim is. Miss Trask can usually put her finger on the trouble, but she can't always fix it."
    "She's very handy with a bobby pin and a spark plug," Trixie said from behind the shower curtain. "But she doesn't know the difference between a snaffle bit and a curb."
    "I know," Honey said. "It's funny how people who love horses seem to hate motors, and vice versa." She went into her bedroom and came back with a clean pair of shorts and a matching top. "You mustn't put on those contaminated clothes you were wearing when you dashed into the woods. I gave them to Celia and told her to get the laundress to wash them."
    "I'm a nuisance," Trixie said as she dressed. "Where are my moccasins?"
    "Here comes Celia with them now," Honey said. "I asked her to clean them with kerosene, just to be on the safe side."
    "Oh, thanks, Celia," Trixie said to the dainty, blond maid. "Sorry I caused you so much extra trouble."
    "No trouble at all, Trixie," Celia said. "The only trouble with this place is that we have all the help we need except a chauffeur. Miss Trask is always driving somebody someplace, just when we need her downstairs."
    "What's happening downstairs, Celia?" Honey asked. "The cook quit again?"
    "No. Winnie simply wants to go home," Celia said. "She's only supposed to work from nine to twelve, you know, and the noon whistle will blow at any minute. The station wagon and the sedan won't run, and Madam and Miss Trask have the Ford." She sighed. "I'm glad I live in. Winnie's husband comes home for lunch, and she's having a fit."
    The noon whistle blew then, and Honey said, "I'll call up and